by Lisa Henry
Viola gasped as she ran. “It’s okay to be scared,” she’d always told Sebby.
It was okay to be scared, but she had to be strong too.
She was running toward the house. She wanted to find Cory’s grandparents and get help.
But what if the bad lady followed her up there? What if she hurt Ana and Ian?
Viola veered to the right and headed for the trees instead. Lightning flashed, and it looked like it was right in front of her. She almost stopped running.
Keep going. You have to keep going.
She kept going, into the trees.
Henry jerked as the bedroom door opened. He’d been crawling around the room—well, hard to crawl with his hands behind his back, so more like rolling, scooting, et cetera—for the last ten minutes, looking for a hairpin or anything he might use to pick the lock on his cuffs. Every time thunder had sounded, he froze and lay paralyzed, his body prickling, mind blank except for panic.
He was still in the stage of the phobia where he was aware enough to hate himself for being afraid.
It’s just. A fucking. Storm.
Just water and wind, noise and light.
He expected to see Chuck or Flora in the doorway.
Instead, he saw Mac’s niece. Carrying a folded umbrella.
And keys.
“How the hell . . .?” Henry asked. “I mean, heck?”
“Shhh,” Cory chided. “Chuck could wake up any minute.” She knelt next to him, set the umbrella aside, and started trying keys in the cuffs.
“How did you get past him?” He still wasn’t entirely sure this was real.
“I lured him into the bathroom. Then I stabbed him with the umbrella. Then I hit him.”
“Is that the kind of stuff they teach you at science camp?”
“No.” The lock clicked, and Cory pulled the cuffs off. “It was Viola’s idea mostly. She was dressed like you. So she ran downstairs to make the lady think you’d escaped.”
“What?”
No. No way had Viola risked that.
“Those gunshots . . .?” he asked frantically.
“She’s probably okay,” Cory said firmly. “She’s tougher than you think.”
He scrambled up and started for the door.
“No!” Cory grabbed his arm. “Don’t just go charging down there. This could be your only chance.”
She was right. Fuck. A fucking nine-year-old was better at getting out of captivity than he was.
She’d stabbed a six three, two-hundred-plus-pound goon with an umbrella.
So . . .
He really needed to up his game.
He fled the room and leaned over the banister. Couldn’t see or hear anything.
A groan from the bathroom. Chuck was getting to his feet. Henry started for the stairs, but Chuck lurched out into the hall, pointing his gun, and got between Henry and the staircase. He fired a shot.
He staggered back, and Cory grabbed his sleeve. “In here!”
She tugged him down the hall and into another room, slamming the door shut and locking it. The room had a long worktable and an old sewing machine. And a pile of clothes on the floor.
“You didn’t take his gun?”
Cory gave him a duh look. “I’m not allowed to touch guns.”
“This is a bit of an extenuating circumstance.”
Cory dragged aside an old trunk, revealing a small brass handle in the wall. She pulled up, and a three-foot entrance appeared. An entrance to what, he wasn’t sure.
“Jesus, how’d you find this, Nancy Drew?”
Cory turned. “Who?”
Something hit the door—Chuck, Henry assumed. He and Cory flattened themselves against the wall. Downstairs, the other man yelled for Flora.
“I mean, how’d you find this, Katy Brenner?” Henry amended, remembering the name of the crackerjack girl detective from the back of a Club Werewolf book.
“Get in.” Cory motioned to the hole in the wall. Chuck hit the door again. “It’s a dumbwaiter.”
Holy shit.
He climbed in because he didn’t see any other option. “I don’t think these were made for people. Come on.” He held out his hand. “You get in too.”
Cory shook her head. “I’m gonna go out the window again. I can slide down the pipe and go get Nana and Papa.”
He opened his mouth to tell her it was too dangerous, but two bullets lodged in the door.
He closed his mouth and nodded.
Cory started the motor.
The elevator creaked as he was lowered into darkness. He tried to visualize the house’s floor plan and figure out where the dumbwaiter would go. More bullets. Both goons yelling. Shit, he shouldn’t have left Cory alone. What kind of d-bag would leave the kid? Guys in the movies always protected the children. Sam Neill, in Jurassic Park, letting the T. rex blow his hat off, telling the kids not to move. And he hadn’t even liked children.
Henry shoved his nails into his palms, trying not to think about Vi. I’d sacrifice Mac’s niece to save her. I’d sacrifice Mac to save her. Never tried to pretend I was a good guy.
The dumbwaiter jolted to a stop, and he fumbled for the door. This one pushed open as opposed to sliding. He climbed out and found himself in a dark space, rain driving against a small window near the ceiling. Something hummed and clicked, and he spotted the glow of a blue gas flame several feet away.
He was in the basement.
Once his eyes had adjusted, he found the stairs and made his way up. Paused at the door before slowly turning the knob and pushing it open.
Somehow, Viola got turned around in the trees. She felt a little like she was onstage. The thunder cracked and the lightning flashed, and she looked up into the rain to see if she could spot the lighting array.
She was surrounded by trees. It was dark and she was running.
She thought of Titania and Oberon and Puck. She thought of mistaken identities and love and mischief.
Then the rain began to pelt down harder, and she thought of tempests that tore twins apart.
She kept running.
Keep running, Henry. Keep fucking running.
Mac squinted up at Eric, blinking blood out of his eyes. Scalp injuries bled like nobody’s business, and Eric’s rings were sharp. Probably the point.
He’d caught a glimpse of Henry bolting out into the storm, illuminated by lightning, and then Flora was after him.
Keep running.
Then he heard shots fired. From upstairs. A sudden barrage of them.
What the fuck?
“Chuck?” Eric yelled out, his pug face screwed up with worry. Things were not going to plan, that was for sure, but Mac wasn’t certain he could take any comfort in that. Not until he knew what the fuck was going on.
“Fucking kid!” Chuck bellowed down the stairs. “Fucking kid hit me with an umbrella!”
Mac’s blood ran cold.
A kid?
No.
Fuck no.
The asshole was shooting at Cory?
He lurched to his feet and launched himself at a startled Eric. Eric braced himself just as Mac hit him. If Mac ever dived headfirst into a brick wall, he imagined it would feel a little like this. They both crashed to the floor, Mac’s chair splintering under them. Lose weight? Fuck that. A skinny guy would still be cuffed to that chair. Not that he was in any less of a precarious position now. He was lying on the floor, his hands still cuffed behind him, and he was pretty sure that hard length pressing into his gut did not mean Eric was pleased to see him.
“You fucker!” Eric gasped, panting into his face.
Mac slammed his head forward as hard as he could.
Eric roared with pain and jabbed the barrel of his firearm harder into his stomach. Mac froze in the absolute certainty that this would hurt like hell. He saw a flash of movement from the doorway, and he stopped breathing.
Henry.
“Fucking asshole,” Mac growled at Eric, desperate to keep the guy’s attention on him. �
�You even got the balls to shoot without that bitch calling the shots?”
Eric roared again, and for a second Mac thought his diversion was so damn effective it’d be the last thing he’d do.
Henry stooped down and picked up a chair leg. Swung it like a club, straight into the back of Eric’s head.
The gun went off.
“Mac?” Henry shoved a moaning Eric off him. “Are you shot?”
Mac stared wide-eyed at the splintered hole in the floorboards. “Shit. I don’t think so. How did you get past Flora?” He struggled to pull himself upright, and realization hit him. “You’re not wet. Jesus. Viola.”
Henry picked up Eric’s gun.
“Keys,” Mac said. “In his pocket.”
“I’m sorry.” Henry fumbled through Eric’s pockets. “Lots of things I want to tell you, but not till we’re done here. And saying them now, it doesn’t count because I’m scared, Mac. So fucking scared.” He tugged the keys out and scrambled over Eric to unfasten Mac’s hands. “Don’t want to say it just because I’m scared.”
“Give me the gun,” Mac said, and grabbed for it. Then pulled Henry close with his free arm as Chuck loomed in the doorway.
Mac fired, and Chuck went down.
“Fuck,” Henry whispered against his neck.
“I love you too,” Mac said, and kissed his forehead. “Now where are Cory and Vi?”
Viola couldn’t hear over the sound of wind and rain against the leaves. She didn’t know if the bad lady had come into the woods after her. She hid behind a tree and waited. She couldn’t see the old house, but if she looked through the trees to her left, she could see the hill that led to Cory’s house. She couldn’t let the bad lady go there.
When that I was and a little tiny boy,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
A foolish thing was but a toy,
For the rain it raineth every day.
She sang to herself until she wasn’t afraid. Her mother used to sing that song to her and Sebby, but sometimes she’d sung it just to Viola, and she’d changed the word “boy” to “girl.”
But when I came to man’s estate,
With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
’Gainst knaves and thieves men shut their gate,
For the rain it raineth every day.
Finally, the rain let up. Viola took her suit jacket off. It was heavy with water, and her hair was coming down from its pins.
A twig cracked, and she tensed.
Another snap.
She peered around the tree.
The bad lady stood a few feet away, wobbling on her high heels, holding out her gun. Viola wanted to scream. Scream and scream, until the bad lady went away. But screaming wasn’t nice. Screaming got you in trouble. She thought of a cartoon she had seen once where a man was hiding, and he tried to trick the people chasing him by throwing things in the opposite direction of where he wanted to go. She bent and picked up a rock, took a deep breath, and threw it into some far away bushes.
It barely made a sound.
She was scared the bad lady would be able to hear her breathing.
The next time she looked around, the bad lady was staggering over the swampy ground in the direction of Cory’s house.
“No!” Viola shouted.
The woman turned just as she ducked behind the tree again. A gust rustled the branches, and Viola shivered with it, closing her eyes.
More twigs snapped, the sound closer, and the bad lady yelled, “Come out here!”
Viola gripped the suit jacket.
Don’t be scared.
She stepped out from behind the tree. The rain wasn’t falling quite as hard, and Viola could see the bad lady’s look of surprise. Saw her raise her gun.
She threw the wet, heavy suit jacket. It fell over the lady’s head, and her gun arm went up. The gun fired into the air, and the bad lady staggered forward, shrieking, trying to throw the sodden jacket off. One high heel sank into the ground, and the lady went to her knees.
Viola turned and ran. Down through the line of trees bordering the yard. She ran until she could see the road.
That made her more scared, because the road was empty and covered in big puddles. She didn’t know which way to run to find help.
She looked behind her, but she didn’t see the bad lady.
When she turned around again, she saw something very, very good.
She saw a car.
“Stay here,” Mac told Henry, although he should have saved his breath and he knew it. Henry’s chest rose and fell rapidly, eyes wide with something beyond fear, but he followed Mac to the door.
He’d face a storm for her.
Mac didn’t bother to argue as Henry darted out into the rain with him.
He started toward his parents’ house as thunder crashed; so close and so loud that Mac felt the ground vibrate.
“Mac!” Henry yelled over the storm.
He turned.
Henry’s face was a mask of terror, illuminated by lightning. His wet hair was plastered to his skin. He was pointing east. Mac squinted into the rain.
Headlights.
On a clear day you could see the curve of Holloway Road from this point, before it straightened up again and was hidden by the screen of elms. When Mac was a kid, he and Libby had raced their parents to Holloway Road, striking out across the fields as their parents drove sedately along the road. Mac had felt like Superman, running faster than the car, until he was old enough to see it for what it was: a shortcut.
He took that shortcut now, Henry at his heels.
The ground was muddy, slippery underfoot, but he didn’t care. The headlights dipped as the car followed the curve of the road.
A car that just happened to be driving out to the farm in weather like this? He didn’t believe in coincidences like that. And he wasn’t sure he believed in miracles either.
He ran faster.
The car stopped and a woman got out.
“FBI!” the woman shouted, and held up a badge and a gun.
Viola skidded to a stop in front of the car, pointing back toward where the bad lady was staggering out of the trees on her mud-encrusted heels. Those were not good for running in. “She has a gun!”
The woman from the FBI nodded sharply.
“Are you Val?” Viola shivered.
“What?” The woman frowned. “I know we’ve never met, Mr. Page . . .” Then her voice trailed away into uncertainty, and she started to laugh. “Oh, fuck it all. You’re not Henry Page!”
And you’re not Mac’s friend Val.
“Don’t move.” The woman pointed her gun at Viola. She wiped her wet hair out of her eyes and said to the approaching bad lady, “Flora, we’ve got a problem here.”
The woman standing beside the car wasn’t Val. Not tall enough.
“It’s Bixler,” Henry yelled as he rushed closer. “Mac!”
He didn’t actually give a shit who it was—to hell with the big moment when the villain revealed herself and the entire audience gasped—because the woman was pointing a gun at Vi, and he was going to kill her.
Bixler looked up as he barreled toward her. Her wet hair clung to her face, one piece plastered against the corner of her mouth. Flora was standing a few feet to her left. They both pointed their guns at him. Which was fine with Henry, as long as the guns weren’t on Vi.
“Stop!” Bixler yelled.
But he didn’t stop.
The ground seemed to rumble behind him. He hoped it wasn’t thunder. Hoped it was Mac coming to back him up.
There was a loud pop, and he felt pain low in his body. He stumbled but kept running. Almost there.
“Henry!” Mac shouted. “Look out!”
He glanced over his shoulder and saw a car hurtling down the hill toward them, spraying mud and wet grass.
Suddenly the gray world around him glared bright as the vehicle’s headlights snapped on. Henry faced forward again, blinking. “Vi!”
Flora and Bixler were
both shooting at the car, but couldn’t aim with the high beams in their eyes. Henry heard glass shatter.
He grabbed Vi, and they both went to the ground. He gasped at the sharp burn in his right hip, but he threw his body over Viola’s and closed his eyes, listening to the gunshots, the car splashing through the mud. It wasn’t slowing at all, no matter how many bullets Bixler and Flora fired at it.
He held Viola closer. So this was how it ended. If someone didn’t shoot them, they’d be run over.
A familiar voice called, “Ryan! Get them out of the way!”
“Henry!” Mac yelled again, much closer.
A hand closed on his arm, and then he and Viola were rolled back, just as the car skidded into the spot where Flora and Bixler were standing. A thunk, and a woman screamed.
The car stopped. Ana jumped out of the passenger’s seat, wearing a paisley apron.
And holding a shotgun.
A second later, Ian got out from behind the wheel. They ran to where Mac was standing over Henry and Vi.
“Are you all right?” Ana demanded. “Where’s Cory?”
“Mom, Dad!” Mac looked horrified. “What are you doing here?”
“We saw a car heading for the old house,” Ian said. “We grabbed the shotgun, got in the Subaru and . . .”
“Decided to run us all over?”
“Now come on, we didn’t get any of you.”
Henry stared at Ana’s mud-splattered Subaru. And at Janice Bixler’s body on the ground in front of it. One of her legs twitched, like a cockroach. So, not dead, then. He tightened his grip on Viola. He hurt.
“Look at that.” Ian shook his head, staring at the shattered windshield of the Subaru. “That woman broke another one of my windows.”
Henry wished he was cool enough to ask Mac what it was about the men in his family knocking women unconscious. He remembered Dreama Carey Coleman, the old lady Mac had roundhouse kicked in the face. Okay, he didn’t actually remember that, because he’d been higher than fuck on whatever Dreama had shot into his veins. But the nurses at the hospital had told him once he was lucid that he’d spent a great deal of time recounting the story of how his friend Mac had “Kicked a bitch. Just fuckin’ kicked some little old biddy, and she went down like a turd in a punch bowl.” And that what the tale had lacked in coherency, it had made up for in spirited reenactment.